


Married Life

by GeniaTheParadox



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family, Fluff, M/M, Parent!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:43:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeniaTheParadox/pseuds/GeniaTheParadox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being married to Sherlock Holmes was going to be a lot different to just living with him. Which was ridiculous really, as Sherlock insisted vehemently that marriage would change absolutely nothing. </p>
<p> Extremely fluffy snippets of the life of Dr. and Mr. Holmes-Watson, from newlyweds to retirement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Married Life

Being married to Sherlock Holmes was going to be a lot different to just living with him. Which was ridiculous really, as Sherlock insisted vehemently that marriage would change absolutely nothing.

“A piece of paper isn’t going to change anything, John. We’re simply going to be two people who live together who have gone to a church, said some words in front of a priest, thrown a party, come home, and continued to live together. Honestly, if you weren’t so insistent on marrying me I’d say we shouldn’t bother.”

“Need I remind you,” John said patiently. “That it was _you_ who proposed to _me?_ ”

“Only because I knew you wanted me to,” said Sherlock with a shrug.

“You got me a ring,” said John, grinning smugly. “A Holmes family heirloom, no less.”

“It was cheaper than buying one.”

“And you made that whole speech about how lucky you were to have me, and how I was the love of your life and you just couldn’t bear to live without me.”

“Not my exact words...”

“And when I said yes, you _cried_.”

“I didn’t cry.”

“You cried, Sherlock. Maybe not uncontrollable weeping, but there were definitely tears.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“And I will definitely be working that into my speech at the reception.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try and stop me.”

“I’ll call the wedding off.”

“No, you won’t. You’re having far too much fun planning it.”

Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

The wedding had been surprisingly... _normal_. John had always wanted a traditional wedding in a church, for as long as he could remember, although his younger self never imagined that he’d be marrying another man. So Sherlock planned the traditional wedding that John had always wanted, with the same meticulous and slightly obsessive dedication that was usually reserved for solving tricky serial murders.

He made pretty much every decision from the flavour of the cake, to colour of the bridesmaids’ dresses, to exactly how the napkins should be folded. He sorted out the guest list and the seating plan, making a detailed list of all the friends and family members who secretly hated John – and not-so-secretly hated Sherlock – so that they could both decide exactly how close to the toilets they were going to be seated. He taught John how to waltz for their first dance (“I can’t believe you know how to waltz! I didn’t think that was the sort of thing that came up in your work.” “Hasn’t yet. But I’m still holding out hope for the right case.”), and composed a piece on his violin for them to dance to (“It’s not a big deal, John. I’ve composed many songs for you. This is just the first one that’s on purpose.”). And since they didn’t have to worry about the whole ‘no seeing the bride before the wedding day’ superstition as there was no bride, they had their stag night together, just the two of them, and both got roaring drunk in a heroically short amount of time. They ended up waking up in a cell at a police station, but luckily Lestrade was there to ( _loudly, so loudly, oh God can you please speak quieter?)_ bail them out. All in all, the Holmes-Watson wedding went perfectly.

Sherlock didn’t see the point of a honeymoon, or Sex Holiday, as he so delicately put it. But John twisted his arm.

“I still don’t understand why we had to come all the way to Venice just to have lots and lots of sex, John. We could have stayed at home and done this for free.”

“This trip _is_ for free. Mycroft paid for everything, said it was his wedding gift to us.”

“Ugh, he just said that so that I wouldn’t be able to get him out of my head while we were here.”

“You certainly weren’t thinking about him earlier. As I recall, you weren’t thinking about anything.”

Sherlock chuckled as he turned on his side, draping a lazy arm over John’s bare chest. “You do tend to have that effect on me. Particularly when you’re shagging me senseless.”

“Surprised the couple next door haven’t complained about the noise,” said John, playing with the hair on the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “You were making an awful racket.”

“The impotent accountant and his alcoholic wife who have come here on their second attempted at a Sex Holiday in order to salvage their failed marriage with forced intimacy have their own problems to worry about. I very much doubt that either of them care enough about all the noise you’ve been causing me to make to actually make a formal complaint. And anyway, forget about them. It’s our Sex Holiday too, and it’s hardly our fault that they aren’t enjoying themselves as much as we are.”

“Please stop calling it that, Sherlock. This is our _honeymoon.”_

“Please stop trying to sugar-coat it, John. This is our _Sex Holiday._ ”

John thought that life would go back to normal – or at least their version of normal – once the honeymoon was over. But, although Sherlock had insisted that nothing would be different, it was. Something about being married had suddenly made Sherlock Holmes-Watson... _affectionate._ Not that he hadn’t always been affectionate in his own way, but now he was being downright _sweet_. John wouldn’t have minded, but these unexpected bursts of rather clingy and possessive affection tended to spring up at the most inconvenient times. He referred to them as Sherlock’s ‘cuddly moods’, and they were somewhere between adorable and really, really annoying.

“Sherlock, I’m busy.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Sherlock, I’m trying to type.”

“I’m not stopping you.”

“You are a bit, actually. I can’t move my arms.”

“It’s only a blog entry, John. Surely it can wait.”

“Get off me.”

“When was the last time I told you I love you?”

“About twenty minutes ago.”

“I love you, John.”

“Yes, I know. I love you too. Now can you please get off me?”

“Not yet. I thought you liked my hugs.”

“Yes, but...”

“Then I fail to see the problem.”

John sighed, giving up on typing up their latest case as his arms were pinned to his sides by Sherlock hugging him from behind. There was just no arguing with him when he was in a cuddly mood. They were almost as bad as his sulky moods, although John had learnt how to deal with those a long time ago.

“John, get off me.”

“I’ve never heard you complain about me being on top of you before.”

“That’s in an entirely different context. In this context, I’m not in the mood.”

“You’re _always_ in the mood.”

Sherlock huffed against the sofa cushion, pinned on his stomach with John straddling him.

“I know you’re _extremely_ busy sulking...”

“I am not sulking, John. I’m not a child.”

“Yes, you are. You’re just a big child, sweetheart. I married a giant toddler who goes into a strop every time he doesn’t have a case.”

Sherlock huffed again, trying to get up. But John kept him pinned to the sofa, massaging Sherlock’s shoulders.

“I just want to take care of you, love.”

Sherlock hummed, squirming back against John’s hands as he kneaded the tight knot of muscles between his shoulders. He sighed as John leaned down and pressed a kiss against the sensitive spot behind his ear. It was difficult to continue sulking with those nimble fingers making all the tension melt out of his body.

“You’ve locked the door, right?” Sherlock whispered.

“Of course I have,” said John, his hands slipping up Sherlock’s t-shirt to touch his bare skin. “Don’t want Mrs Hudson walking in on us again.”

“I’m certain she’s been able to hear us through the ceiling since we moved in,” Sherlock sighed, letting John pull his shirt over his head. “But her interruptions do tend to spoil the mood.”

It didn’t take long for Sherlock and John to settle into a state of comfortable domesticity, a routine that soon became second nature to them in the next two years as their lives began to slow down somewhat. On one particularly average night they were sat up in bed, John reading a book and Sherlock researching something on his iPad.

“Quick question, John.”

“Yes, love?”

“Since when do you wear glasses?”

“And you call me unobservant. They’re just reading glasses.”

“But you’ve never needed reading glasses before.”

“They help. Age is catching up with me, dear.”

“Hmm, that’s true. You’ve been going steadily greyer over the past month, but I didn’t want to mention it in case you took it the wrong way.”

John marked his place in his book and put it down, giving Sherlock a look. “And what way would that be?”

“Well,” said Sherlock, looking up from his research. “You’d assume I meant it as a bad thing and probably do something stupid, like try to dye your hair back to blonde. I don’t know why, but you always assume I’m being negative when I point out differences in your appearance.”

“You mean like when you casually pointed out last week that I’ve put on at least seven pounds.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing. Just like I didn’t say you going grey was a bad thing. I like it.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It makes you look mature and rather handsome... more so than usual, anyway. And it certainly doesn’t age you. Only facial hair does that.”

John rolled his eyes,” Don’t remind me.”

“Seriously, John,” Sherlock chuckled. “That moustache made you look ancient. It put at least ten years on you, and it made your kisses so... _prickly_.”

“Yes, okay, the moustache was a mistake, I know. I tried it out, it didn’t work, I shaved it off, end of story. Please stop going on about it.”

“Honestly, you looked about a hundred years old, John. Keep the grey hair and reading glasses and extra seven pounds around your middle, they suit you. But grow a moustache again and I’m filing for divorce.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said John, taking his glasses off and placing them on the bedside table. “You’ve been putting on weight too, you know. You’re not nearly as bony as you used to be. It’s nice not having to worry about cracking one of your ribs if I hug you too hard.”

“My extra weight gain is entirely your fault, John. You insist on feeding me excessively.”

“Three meals a day is not excessive, Sherlock. And anyway, you lucky bastard, all your extra weight just turns to muscle, which is ridiculous as you don’t even do any exercise. We’re both edging towards middle-age, and yet while I’m going grey and pudgy, you’re somehow getting more attractive. It’s not fair in the slightest.”

“It’s not all fun and games for me, John. Most of my shirts don’t fit me properly anymore.”

“You’re shirts have never fit you properly.”

“And I found another grey hair this morning.”

“That makes three. Three grey hairs. You haven’t exactly been ravaged by time, Sherlock.”

“Yes, well... I’ll love you no matter how grey, blind and fat you get, John.”

“Charming. What are you researching anyway? We don’t have a case on.”

“Fertility clinics and egg donors.”

John wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard right. “I’m sorry – what?”

“Your hearing isn’t going too, is it?”

“And when did we agree on this?”

“Yesterday.”

“I was in Wandsworth yesterday. I’ve told you a thousand times, Sherlock! Don’t just carry on having conversations with me when I’m not actually in the flat!”

“Right. Sorry. I just thought it was time we started trying to have children. At first I was looking into adoption, but I think we’d both prefer it the children were biologically ours. I figured you’d agree. After all, you’ve always wanted to be a father.”

“Well, yes. But I didn’t know you did.”

“Of course I do. Why is that so surprising?”

John laughed, pulling Sherlock into an unexpected hug. “It’s surprising for more reasons than I care to mention, love. But... _thank you_.”

On December 3rd, at 4.27am, Hamish was born. He was biologically a Holmes, with a shock of dark brunette curls and eyes that were somehow about four different colours all at once. The bedroom next to the kitchen, which before hadn’t been used at all, was converted into the nursery. Sherlock became a stay-at-home father while John worked full-time at the surgery, solving the occasional cold case from home while he took care of the baby and organised the flat to make it slightly safer in time for when Hamish began crawling. Just after his first birthday – celebrated at home with a quiet tea and a homemade cake from Mrs Hudson – Hamish finally learnt his first word.

“Weeks, _weeks_ I’ve been trying to get him to say ‘Dada’. But no, his first word had to be...”

“Dead!” Hamish babbled happily from his highchair. “Dead, dead, dead. Dead!”

Sherlock tried his best not to smile as Hamish chanted his new word, shaking and banging his sippy cup against his highchair – John had had to buy him a special non-spill cup since Hamish had taken up a new favourite hobby of picking things up and banging then against any available surface until they broke.

“It wasn’t on purpose, John. I’ve been reading him all those baby books you bought, but I guess he must have overheard me while I was on the phone to Lestrade and...”

“Dead! Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead!”

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, somewhere between amused and mortified. “We’re going to have to teach him some new words soon. Normal words, things that won’t make passersby want to call social services on us. And while we’re on the subject, I still haven’t forgiven you for taking him to that crime scene.”

“It was _once_ , John. I couldn’t solve the case from home because there wasn’t enough data, and Mrs Hudson wasn’t in to look after him. We had a nice day out, didn't we, Hamish?”

“Dead, dead, dead!”

Sherlock grinned. “Exactly.”

“You took a baby to a crime scene, Sherlock.”

“The victim in question was strangled to death, there wasn’t even any blood. He looked like he was just sleeping. I highly doubt it’ll cause Hamish any permanent mental scars. And anyway, you weren’t there and you know I think better when I have someone to talk aloud to. Although he wasn’t as good at paying me compliments after my brilliant deductions as you are. Maybe the next word he should learn should be ‘amazing’.”

John laughed in spite of himself. He really didn’t want to find this funny, but in a twisted sort of way it was hilarious.

“You didn’t mind our trip to the crime scene, did you, little man?” Sherlock cooed, lifting Hamish out of his highchair and kissing the top of his head.

“D-dead, dead, Da-dead,” Hamish babbled.

“Couldn’t agree with you more, Hamish,” Sherlock chuckled. “There’s nothing like a good murder.”

“Dead, dead! Der-dead... mah-dah... _mur-DAH!”_

“Wow,” said John with an exasperated sigh. “First ‘dead’ and now ‘murder’, it just keeps getting better.”

Sherlock tried his best not to let the immense amount of pride he was feeling show on his face.

At the age of three Hamish knew lots more words that had nothing to do with death or murder. He was walking by himself and extremely curious, which was a blessing and a curse really, he had taught himself the alphabet and could count up to thirty before he needed help. On Sherlock and John’s anniversary (the anniversary of their first case, which Sherlock thought was much more important than their wedding anniversary) they sent Hamish up to spend the weekend with Granny and Granddad Holmes and, for old time’s sake, Sherlock agreed to take a case that couldn’t be solved from home.

The case took an entire day of investigating, running through the back streets of London, and one instance where John sprained the arm of an uncooperative junkie which Sherlock admitted to finding a tiny bit sexy. Once the case was solved and the police had finally arrived to make their arrests, Sherlock dragged John into a nearby alley and pushed him up against the brick wall, kissing him fiercely.

“What was that for?” John said breathlessly.

“I’ve missed this,” said Sherlock, pressing himself against John’s body and kissing down his neck. “The adrenaline pumping through our veins after a successfully solved case, just the two of us against the rest of the world... and you, John, being so damn _sexy_.”

John moaned against his husband, clinging onto the front of his coat. “I must say, I’ve missed this too.”

“Remember before we were married,” Sherlock whispered right into John’s ear. “After we’d solve a really dangerous case, and we could barely keep our hands off each other...”

John grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s hair. “Mmm, I remember. Those were some of the longest cab rides home ever.”

“And then when we’d finally get back to the flat we wouldn’t even make it to our bedroom. You’d have me up against the wall, on the sofa, on the _floor_...”

“Speaking of which, we should go home.”

“I don’t think I can wait that long.”

“We’ve got the place to ourselves for the first time in about three years, Sherlock. We don’t have to make it to the bedroom, and you can make as much noise as you want.”

“Good point.”

Sherlock gave John one last heated kiss, before taking his hand and dragging him back to the main road, impatiently hailing a cab. When they finally – _finally_ – got back to the flat, as predicted, they didn’t make it to the bedroom. Afterwards they lay curled up on the sofa, Sherlock’s coat used as a makeshift blanket, sweaty and breathless in the afterglow.

“When was the last time I told you I love you?”

“Just after I sprained that junkie’s arm.”

“I love you, John.”

“Love you too, Sherlock. I think I’m getting a bit old for this crime solving lark though.”

“Hmm, me too. It _was_ a lot of fun though.”

“It really was.”

“But it was exhausting. And I kept worrying about Hamish.”

“I’m sure he’s fine with your parents, they’re great with him.”

“That’s not what I meant, John. I meant I was worrying about _us_. Something could have gone wrong, we could have gotten hurt. We can’t afford to keep putting ourselves in such danger when we have a child who depends on us.”

“You have no idea how happy it makes me that _you_ were the one who said that first.”

“I think we should move.”

“What?”

“We should move, John. Into a proper house, somewhere that’s still in London but away from the centre of town. Somewhere with a garden and more than two bedrooms. Also I think we should have another baby.”

John smiled, holding Sherlock closer and kissing the top of his head. “That sounds perfect, love.”

They found a house in the suburbs, with a big garden and ivy growing up the white brick walls. The interior was decorated similarly to 221B, with the same patterned wallpaper, a whole room just for all of Sherlock’s books and experiments – which inevitably spilled out into the rest of the house – and Sherlock and John’s old armchairs in the living room, facing each other in front of the fireplace, with the old skull up on the mantelpiece. John found a new job as a GP at the local hospital, and Sherlock decided to retire from detective work and focus on his new goals; passing on his skills of deduction to Hamish so he could take over as the world’s only consulting detective some day, and properly recording every one of his past cases in a much more scientific and analytical way than John had been doing with his blog.

On June 15th, at 9.53pm, Annabelle was born. She was biologically a Watson, with a tuft of fine blonde hair and big blue eyes. But that didn’t make her any less of a Holmes, just as Hamish being biologically a Holmes didn’t make him any less of a Watson. Annie was a beautiful baby, happy and smiley and impossible not to fall in love with. She hardly ever cried unless she needed feeding or changing, and as the only girl in the family everyone inevitably became very protective of her.

On a typical Sunday morning the family of four were all in the master bedroom. Hamish sat at the foot of the bed in his Spiderman pyjamas, playing with his favourite teddy (a specially made forth birthday gift from Uncle Mycroft, that wore a little black coat with the collar turned up, a blue scarf around its neck, and a deerstalker hat attached to its fluffy head. Sherlock had groaned and rolled his eyes when that particular birthday present was unwrapped). John sat on his side of the bed, reading the morning paper and occasionally looking up to watch Sherlock beside him, playing with Annie on his lap. Annie giggled and squealed as Sherlock exercised her legs and lifted her up so he could blow raspberries against her tummy.

“Why are you staring at me?” Sherlock asked John once he put Annie down on the bed, where she immediately turned herself onto her stomach and crawled over to her big brother and Detective Teddy.

“Nothing, nothing,” said John, unable to wipe the fond smile off his face. “It’s just... I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to that.”

“Used to what?”

“You, being all... _paternal_ , and... _cute.”_

“Cute? I am not _cute_.”

“I beg to differ.”

“I have literally never been described as cute before.”

“That’s because you’ve never been this cute before, love.”

“I’ll try and tone it down.”

“Don’t you dare.”

They smiled at each other, before leaning in at once for a quick, sweet kiss.

They spent that Christmas with Sherlock’s parents, Mycroft being guilt-tripped into coming along too by his mother so he could spend some quality time with his niece and nephew. It was one of those rare Christmases where it actually snowed, and after helping Hamish build a snowman in the back garden, John shared a cup of tea and a few mince pies with Mr. Holmes in front of the fire, baby Annie perched on her Granddad’s knee.

“So nice of you all to come for Christmas,” said Mr. Holmes pleasantly.

“Not a problem,” said John. “The kids love it here. Sherlock does too, but you’ll never get him to say it out loud.”

Mr. Holmes chuckled, bouncing his granddaughter on his knee. “We haven’t seen Annabelle since she was just a few days old. You’re such a big girl now, aren’t you, darling?”

Annie babbled happily. She didn’t know how to speak yet but she loved to join in with conversations anyway.

“I must say, John,” said Mr. Holmes. “You are definitely the best thing that ever happened to my boy.”

John choked a little bit on his sip of tea. “Wow, erm... thanks. What makes you say that?”

“I didn’t think that I’d ever live to see either of my sons get married. Mycroft was all about his career, of course. He couldn’t stand other people. With intelligence like his, the rest of us looked like morons, so I never expected him to settle down with someone. And Sherlock... well, you know Sherlock. I can’t tell you how surprised we were when that wedding invitation fell through the letterbox. And _grandchildren_ , oh I never thought we would have grandchildren! And it’s all because of you, John. Best thing that ever happened to our Sherlock.”

John cleared his throat a little bit awkwardly, suddenly feeling rather emotional. “Thank you. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

On a drizzly spring evening John was in the kitchen making tea, remembering as always to put Sherlock’s in his favourite St. Bart’s mug, when suddenly a pair of slender arms wrapped around him.

“Busy.”

The arms moved to instead wrap around his waist, leaving John’s own arms free continue making tea.

“Thank you.”

“It took three chapters of The Hobbit, but the kids are finally asleep.”

“Yeah, I could hear your Smaug voice from down here.”

“Hamish likes my Smaug voice.”

“Personally I think you get way too into it. You’re going to give Annie nightmares about big, mean, gold-hoarding dragons that look suspiciously like her father.”

“Annabelle is five, I think she’d old enough to realise that dragons are fictional and thus cannot hurt her.”

“If you say so. But if she has a nightmare you’re dealing with it.”

“Fine.”

Sherlock held John a little bit tighter from behind, resting his chin on his good shoulder. “When was the last time I told you I love you?”

“Last night before I fell asleep.”

“I love you, John.”

“Love you too, dear.”

“I mean it, John. I love you so much. More than I can adequately put into words.”

John froze as he was reaching for the kettle, turning his head to look at his husband. “You okay?”

“Of course I am.”

“No, you’re not.” John turned in Sherlock arms to look at him properly, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “What’s the matter?”  

“It’s nothing, just...”

“Talk to me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed, running a hand through his hair which was now liberally streaked with grey. “While you were at work and the kids were at school, I was thinking and I had a very sudden realisation that snowballed into a bunch of what if’s, and then I became rather emotional which you know I hate, it’s so disconcerting...”

“And what was this realisation?”

Sherlock rested his hand on John bad shoulder, his thumb gently circling the place where he knew the scar to be. “If it wasn’t for this scar on your shoulder, none of us would be here.”

John’s shoulder twitched a little bit. The old injury ached more often than not nowadays. “What do you mean?”

“If you hadn’t been shot in Afghanistan and been invalided back to London, then you wouldn’t have bumped into Mike Stamford and mentioned that you needed to find someone to share a flat with on the same day that I’d told him the same thing. We wouldn’t have moved in together, or solved any cases together, we wouldn’t have gotten married, or moved to this house, or had Hamish and Annie... none it would have happened if it wasn’t for this scar on your shoulder.”

“But it _did_ all happen, Sherlock. And that’s the important thing. Me getting shot and having to come back to London was clearly no accident. Remember what you tell the kids about coincidences...”

“...the universe is rarely so lazy, yes. But still, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it all day. And not just what would have happened if you hadn’t been shot, but...” Sherlock suddenly became very solemn. “What if you _had_ been shot but you... you didn’t come home? What if the wound had been fatal?”

“Sherlock...”

“What if it had been worse than just a scar on your shoulder and a psychosomatic limp? What if you had died in Afghanistan? Then there would be no chance at all of me ever meeting you, none of this would have ever happened. And God knows what would have happened to me without you. I might have lost the game against that murderous cabbie and been poisoned. Or I might have gotten bored of detective work all together and gone back to filling my veins with cocaine to keep my mind occupied, until I was found lying in a gutter somewhere or passed out in a drug den by the Lestrade or someone. And then Mycroft would have to force me back into rehab, but I wouldn’t have any reason to stay clean and keep on living, I wouldn’t be able to see the point of it all. You wouldn’t be there to show me the point of it all. You wouldn’t be there to save me.”

“Sherlock, please stop talking like this,” said John, wiping away the stray tear that had poured down Sherlock’s cheek. “None of that stuff happened. None of it matters now. We have a family, a life together. And yes, it’s because of the scar on my shoulder.”

“But what if...?”

“Sherlock, don’t. No more what if’s. Come on.”

Abandoning the tea, John took Sherlock’s hand and led him to the living room. They sat together on the sofa, John wrapping his arms around Sherlock while Sherlock rested his head on John’s good shoulder. Baskerville, the black Labrador puppy they had gotten Hamish for his eighth birthday (he was named after Hamish’s second favourite bedtime story), bounded up to them and scrambled up onto Sherlock’s lap.

“I understand why you’re upset,” John said softly. “Sometimes I wonder how my life would have turned out if I hadn’t met you. But then I realise that it’s pointless thinking that way, because I _did_ meet you, Sherlock. I met you, and you were strange and brilliant and _infuriating_... and I fell in love with you instantly. And at the time I obviously never thought I would, but I thank every deity I can think of every day that I got shot in the shoulder.”

Sherlock smiled, scratching behind Baskerville’s ear as John kissed his forehead. His head felt a lot less chaotic now, calm and still. His husband always had that effect on him.

“Oh!” Sherlock said suddenly. “That reminds me...”

Sherlock stood up, pushing Baskerville onto John’s lap, and rushed over to his study. When he came back he handed John a piece of paper.

“Annie drew this in class today. The teacher asked her to draw her family.”

Baskerville scampered back onto Sherlock’s lap once he sat back down, as John looked at the drawing. It was adorably crude, but it was still easy to tell exactly who everyone was even without the labels underneath – _Daddy, Father, Hamish, Me, Granny, Granddad, Uncle Mycroft, Baskerville._

“Oh, this is precious,” said John. “And such an accurate representation of Mycroft.”

Everyone in the drawing was smiling, even Sherlock, although not quite a broadly as everyone else. Mycroft, however, had a very pronounce frown on his face.

“I know,” said Sherlock. “I already took a photo of it and sent it to him. He still hasn’t texted back. He probably just rolled his eyes and decided to ignore me.”

John chuckled. “We’re going to have to make some space on the fridge door for this.”

“Actually I was thinking of framing it.”

“Really?”

“I want to put it in my study... as a reminder.”

John didn’t need to ask Sherlock what he meant.

As the years passed, the Holmes-Watson living room culminated a great deal of framed photographs. It was all Sherlock’s doing. It wasn’t enough just to have albums full of photos and countless files on his laptop; Sherlock wanted reminders everywhere of the people he loved the most in the world, the proof that his life had amounted to something. So every shelf in the living room now contained countless pictures of the family – birthday parties and Christmases, Hamish at his violin recitals and Annie in her school plays. Eventually more pictures were added, like Hamish beaming beside his parents and his sister at his University graduation, and Annie posing in the hallway in her dress for her sixth form Prom. But pride of place at the front was always Sherlock’s favourite picture; himself and John standing outside the church on their wedding day.

“You both look so handsome,” said Hamish’s wife, Leanne.

“Thanks,” John chuckled, leaning against his cane. “It’s one of the few pictures you’ll find where Sherlock is actually smiling.”

Leanne giggled. “Well, it looked like a lovely day. It was so sunny.”

“Yeah, that was a close one. It was raining cats and dogs the day before. Sherlock was in a right state, it was scuppering all his finite plans.”

“He planned the wedding?”

“Oh, every detail. All I had to do was show up and say ‘I do’ at the right time.”

They both laughed as Leanne picked up the photo to take a closer look. “I swear, Hamish looks just like him. It’s uncanny. The twins are only small, but I can tell they’re going to look just like Daddy and Grandfather too.”

After Christmas dinner, the Holmes-Watsons all sat in the living room, Sherlock and John in their usual armchairs and Baskerville snoozing in front of the fire. Annie, who was home from Uni for the holidays, sat cross-legged on the floor playing with her nieces, while Hamish and Leanne enjoyed a Christmas drink on the sofa. Charlotte and Paige really did look like Holmes’, with curly black hair and eyes that were somehow four different colours all at once.

“Grandfather,” said Charlotte in her lispy little voice. “Daddy says that you used to be a detective.”

“Yeah, Daddy says that you and Granddad used to solve crimes,” chimed Paige.

“Yes, we did,” said Sherlock with a little smile.

“Did you solve lots of murders?” Charlotte asked excitedly.

“A fair few, yes.”

“Did you see lots of dead bodies?” asked Paige, bouncing where she sat.

“Of course.”

“Oooh, tell us, tell us!” the twins trilled eagerly at once.

“Story time,” John said with a chuckled. “Any requests?”

“You should tell the one about the Hound, that was always my favourite,” said Hamish. “Then the girls will know how old Baskerville got his name.”

“I like the one with the serial killer cabbie the best,” said Annabelle. “It’s the story of how you both met. We may as well start from the beginning.”

“Right you are, Annie,” said John. “A Study in Pink it is.”

“I still don’t understand why it needs a title,” said Sherlock rolling his eyes. “But I suppose it’s a nice story, rather romantic.”

“Oh yes, terribly romantic... if you find crime scenes and corpses and serial killers _romantic_.”

“I know you’re being sarcastic, John, but I’m not sure why. As that was our very first case and the day we moved in together, the story can be classified as being romantic considering where it led. You certainly romanticised all the science out of it on your blog.”

“Tell us, tell us, tell us!” the twins chanted in unison.

John and Sherlock smiled at each other, Sherlock inclining his head silently to tell John to start the story.

“Well, kids,” said John, smiling fondly at his granddaughters. “It all started when I was sent home from the war, and I really needed to find a place to live in London...”


End file.
